


Renegades in the Ring

by picnokinesis



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I don’t know how to write in chapters so here have sections, I wrote a historical fic about mutants, Injury, Multi, Mutant Powers, Nose-bleeds, P.T. is a charmer, P.T. is an idiot but I love him anyway, although arguably in this fic they’re one and the same, and by that I mean he has minor mind control not that he’s charming, and so couldn’t use the word ‘mutant’ for the entire fic, and then the circus king gets lost himself, as hilarious as it would be there is no wolverine sorry, circus family bonding, dammit p.t., discrimination of mutants, ethical implications of mutant powers, he was like 12 in 1900 so, hiding what you are and trying to be normal, if I finish this I will be incredibly impressed, if I finish this whole thing there’s probably gonna be about ten lettie and phin hugs in total, lettie and phin being friends is very important to me, post-Jenny crying, pre-Jenny circus shenanigans, slow-build, technically set in the marvel comics universe I guess?, the lost get found in the crown of the circus king, this thing is going to be so long save me, too many tags possibly, vs accepting and embracing the fact that you are different, what happens when you combine mind control with a growing sense of ambition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picnokinesis/pseuds/picnokinesis
Summary: “I know what you are, Mr Barnum,” the man sneered, lips contorting with a threatening grin. “Iknow.”“With all due respect, sir,” Barnum snarled back, “Get the hell out of my circus.”





	Renegades in the Ring

**Author's Note:**

> In which everything must begin somewhere

Phineas knew it was something he’d always been able to do.

Well, perhaps not always, but certainly since he was a child; he remembered standing in front of a stall, aged nine, waiting whilst his father spoke with a potential customer and wishing he could have an apple. But he already knew what his father would say; money was always tight, and little luxuries just wouldn’t do.

But the stall tender had caught him looking. Their eyes had met, and Phineas had thought **_please_** , even though he’d known it would do no good. He had no money.

When the stall tender handed him an apple and didn’t even seem to _expect_ payment, Phineas had put it down to kindness – luck, even. He’d hidden the fruit in his pocket so his father wouldn’t see and thought nothing of it when he savoured it later.

And that hadn’t been the only time. From then on, he’d found he only needed say what he wanted, or think about it with a certain focus, and the person in front of him would do exactly that. Although it didn’t seem to work on everyone, he noticed. There were a handful – Charity’s father, his own father, the vendor who would always chase him when he stole from his stall – who appeared immune to his influence. But he never saw that influence for what it was – an abnormal ability, rather than way with words and a carefully crafted smile – until he started working on the railroad.

He’d been eighteen, laying down tracks in the railbeds cleared by another team of labourers, when he’d moved to check the area ahead whilst the other men readied a new set of supplies. He’d found treacherous ground, saturated and weakened by recent rains. The mud was fissured. Dangerous. He turned to see a fellow worker standing by his shoulder.

“We should wait,” Phineas reasoned, knowing what their coordinator would say.

“Yeah, we should – but that ain’t gonna float,” said the worker.

“If we try and build on that now it’s not gonna hold the weight.”

“Kid, what do you want me to do?”

He’d thought _go and talk to the coordinator_ without actually intending it, but instantly the man turned and walked back down the track. Phineas followed him, only realising what the man was intending when he made towards the coordinator. He frowned, putting it down to coincidence, trying not to feel a cold sense of dread at the thought of the conversation about to happen, trying not to think of apples being inexplicably handed to him.

The conversation went about as well as expected.

“If you’re not prepared to work – fine. Both of you get out of my sight. You’re done here.”

 _No_ , thought Phineas at the coordinator, half-pleading, half-hoping. _Change your mind._

The coordinator looked at him, his eyes confused, but said nothing.

“ ** _No_** ,” he urged aloud, feeling a surge of fear but deciding he had nothing to lose. “ ** _Change your mind_** _._ ”

The coordinator frowned, then looked between the two of them.

“You’re both good workers,” he said carefully. “I think this time I’ll…allow you to continue on working.”

The other man glanced at Phineas, both relieved and bewildered, and then quickly agreed to head back to work immediately. But Phineas was driven by self-preservation and the desperate need for confirmation – _was this actually something he could do?_ – and so said:

“No – it’s too dangerous. **_We should wait until tomorrow_**.”

The seconds hung, dangerous with their potential for calamity – the moment before the applause in the shows he’d performed in his head for as long as he could remember.

Then time clicked back into motion.

“Lay the tracks tomorrow,” the coordinator said. “Start moving more supplies here for today.”

Phineas nodded but said nothing, a storm of emotions raging in his chest as the coordinator walked away. Was it possible for him to be euphoric at his own success whilst being terrified of the implications? To be afraid of _himself,_ with this _ability_ to do something he hadn’t thought was possible. That _shouldn’t_ be possible.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the coordinator walked out of earshot, and the other man grabbed his shoulders and spun them face to face.

“How’d you do that?” he said. His bewilderment had turned to alarm. Fear.

“I – I don’t know what –”

“Don’t fool with me – are you one of them? Those freaks?”

Phineas had no idea what he was talking about, and tried to shake himself free. The man only held him tighter.

“You’re a _freak_ that can get in people’s heads – do you know what we _do_ to your kind?”

A flare of panic swirled in his chest. “ ** _Leave me alone_** _!”_

He wasn’t surprised this time when the man obeyed him. 

Phineas spent one more night with that crew, noting the hostile stares that replaced the usual comradery. The next morning he’d requested to be transferred to another crew – a request that had been immediately approved, of course. He’d travelled a few miles up the unfinished track, joining the survey team despite his age. It was a few weeks later that he caught a glimpse of a newspaper headline partly covered by a hand: _FREAKS CAUSE TERROR ACR–_

He knew what he was – abnormal, a thing, a freak – but he didn’t want to think about it. Instead he drafted his next letter to Charity in his head, counting the months, the _years,_ until he’d finally, _finally_ have enough to go back and see her again – to show her the magic that was so absent from her life.

He lost himself in daydreams of swirling colours and lights as he worked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The clattering ostinato of wheels along the tracks he had helped build was calming and familiar, and at any other time he would have fallen asleep. But today Charity was sitting beside him, the chiaroscuro of sunlight and shadows sweeping across her face as the train began to slow. The journey had been long, but it had felt like nothing. Finally, they were here together after far too long – the first time seeing each other in almost _two decades_. It was impossible for him to fall asleep; he wasn’t going to miss a single second of this string of moments.

 “Did you even _buy_ a ticket?” she asked, looking amused but a little confused as they disembarked. He smiled at her and took her hand, leading her through the station.

“Of course,” he said, but did nothing else to try and convince her. He had no intention of ever using his abilities on her. “What do you take me for, a scoundrel?”

 “Phin, you told the ticketmaster you had already shown them to him when you _hadn’t_.” She sounded somewhat disapproving. “I still don’t understand why he believed you.”

The ticketmaster, of course, had been a different matter. He’d had no qualms using his talents there. He’d helped _build_ the railway, after all.

Rather than answering, he side-stepped behind her and spun her into his arms, never letting go of her hand.

“ _Phin_.” Her voice was light and soft with laughter, and he couldn’t help but smile as he tucked his head against hers.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t you want me to show you around?”

Charity huffed with fond exasperation. “Well then stop pretending we’re at a dance and _show me_.”

He spun her again so they were face to face, then bowed to her. “It would be my pleasure, Ms Hallet.”

She shook her head, but then laughed when he suddenly pulled them through the station at a run, before slowing in awe at the panorama of New York City’s urban sprawl. Here was a new start for both of them, and for him it felt like a turning point – the first step towards something bigger than even _he_ could imagine. Here he was no longer Phineas, the tailor’s boy – he was P.T. Barnum, visionary to-be, with the most extraordinary person he had ever met here to share it with him.

“It’s incredible,” Charity breathed. Barnum looked at her, thinking the same, still not able to believe that she was really here with him. That she had said _yes._

“Let’s go,” he said, and squeezed her hand as he pulled them both into the unknown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The room was filled with a soft morning glow. Barnum stood in the doorway, admiring how the light reflected on Charity’s hair as she sat on their small sofa. Her face was peaceful as she read, one hand holding her book and the other resting on her growing bump. He tried to suppress the swirl of fear in his stomach that felt so wrong compared to the calmness before him – but he was unsuccessful.

He wasn’t just afraid – he was _terrified_. He had been since two nights previous, when the realisation had come to him in the early hours of the morning.

They were having a child. Charity was having _his_ child. _His_.

 _The child of a freak_.

Not that _Charity_ knew that – he hadn’t told her about his talents, and he intended to avoid doing so for as long as he could. But what if their child was like him? What if they were able to…do things? By now he knew much more about his kind than he had when he was eighteen – he’d heard news of people who looked like demons and could move from one place to another in the blink of an eye, people who could take water and make it dance between their hands, who could create shields of impenetrable energy, who could change their face into anyone else’s. He knew he was lucky; with his ability to charm people to do any action, it was a gift able to go mostly unnoticed, even when he hadn’t been able to control it completely. These other deviants were unable to hide, and were hated and feared by society because of it. He’d heard that those who were considered too dangerous were taken away and never seen again. If this was the fate that awaited their child…

…it would be because of him – because of his inability to stop dreaming above his station in society. Because he had been unable to leave Charity to a life where she was safe, where she had everything she needed, a life he was desperate to give her but _couldn’t_ , and now she had unknowingly married a _freak,_ and if she knew –

Charity looked up from her book, sensing him watching her, and turned her head to glance at him. She must have seen something of his fear in his eyes, because she suddenly looked concerned.

“What’s wrong?”                                                                                                          

He smiled at her, trying to supress all that scared him so much. “Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

Even to himself it didn’t sound convincing. She frowned at him.

“Phin, come on, talk to me.”

“It’s fine,” he assured her, smiling again, but she gave him a look and he sighed and came over to the sofa. She pulled her legs in a little to give him room to sit beside her.

“I’m just a little – anxious, is all,” he said, knowing there was no chance of him getting away with saying nothing. “About the baby.”

A small smile spread across her face. “You’re going to be _fine_. I can hardly imagine anyone who would be a better father. Besides, the only person I really have to compare you against is my _own_ father, and he’s not exactly set the bar high.”

He laughed softly, wishing it could be as simple as that, but nodded to her. “Yes. Yes, I know. And you’re going to be great too.”

Her smile faltered, and – damn it – she’d always been able to read him like the books she loved so much. He wanted to tell her but he _couldn’t,_ because what would happen to her then, if she became afraid of him? If she left, she’d be alone, with child, and her parents would consider her a disgrace to their family as a mother without a husband. If she stayed, she would be trapped with a man she feared, _despised_. A man who had _lied_ to her.

“You _will_ ,” he said, pretending the fading smile was because she was nervous about being a mother. He gently put his hand on her knee. “We’ll both be fine.”

“That’s not it, is it?” she said, not allowing him to avoid it. “That’s not what you’re afraid of.”

“No, no, that was all it was.” He couldn’t look at her as he braced himself to stand. “I think I’ll just –”

“ _Phin_.” He felt her take his hand and he looked at her. Her eyes were filled with concern. He froze as she studied him, his heartbeat thumping in his throat with dread. And then – a flash of realisation crossed her face, and she squeezed his hand.

“It’s ok – I know,” was all she said.

Barnum tried to unlock his throat. “Y – you what? I –”

“I know that you’re – not normal.” Her tone was careful, but her expression was open and reassuring. “And if our child is – like you…we’ll keep them safe. _Both_ of us will. I promise you.”

He stared at her – she _knew_? She –

“You _know?_ ” he managed to say, _hating_ the way his voice sounded. “How –?”

“Phin,” she interrupted, grinning at him. “It’s subtle when you do it to someone once – but I _live_ with you. I’ve seen you do it far too many times to believe it’s just luck or coincidence.”

“I – wh–” He blinked, trying to process the whole thing – that she’d _known_. He shook his head. “Well, you figured it out quicker than I did.”

She laughed, and his face broke with a smile because it was by far the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A sound he’d been so scared he’d never hear again.

“You’re not – afraid of it? Of me?” he asked, not quite able to believe the answer that was clear before him.

“Of _course_ not – you are and always have been the man I love. Nothing’s going to change that.”

A short, shaky laugh escaped his throat as he let the surge of relief flood through him. Why had he been so afraid? She was the kindest, most loving person he knew – of course she would accept him. She always had.

“Although I haven’t figured out _exactly_ what it is you can do yet,” she admitted. “It seems like you can control people by talking to them? But sometimes all you do is _look_ at them and –”

“It’s…both – but it’s more like a…suggestion, when I think it,” he said, for the first time trying to put it into words. “I think at someone what I want them to do, and – well, I don’t know what it’s like, but I imagine it feels like a thought comes from inside them, not outside. And often they take that thought and follow it, even if it’s something they wouldn’t have done otherwise.”

“And the talking?”

“Well, sometimes the…suggestion…doesn’t take.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Sometimes it just makes someone stop, or become indecisive. The talking is more like a command. If I _tell_ someone to do something, usually they’ll do it.”

“Usually?”

“Some people seem immune to it. Your father, for one.”

Charity raised her eyebrows. “That would partly explain why you could never get him to like you.”

Barnum chuckled. “Never could pull anything on him.”

She smiled, then paused for a moment, considering.

“You haven’t used them on me, though.”

 “No – and I won’t,” he assured. He moved closer and held her hand in both of his. “I made a promise to myself that I would never use them on you.” He then looked at her, curious. “How were you so sure I hadn’t?”

“I had a feeling, from what I know of you,” she replied. “And I think I might have felt it if you had.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He sat at his cluttered desk, his face lit by a small candle, glancing at the papers before him with no intention of working. He –

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly. It was more difficult than it should have been, but he managed it.

Unable to stay still, he got up and paced. The sparsely furnished room offered little to distract him from the thoughts swirling in his head, but moving helped. He needed to calm down. He was fine. He was _fine_. He was safe. His _family_ was safe. No one knew who he was – or, rather, _what_ he was. And there was little chance of that changing any time soon. In the past he’d sometimes not been careful enough with his abilities. Desperately bored in jobs that felt beneath his skills – beneath the kaleidoscope of ideas constantly filling his head – he’d been driven to attempt to persuade employers into giving him a higher position. But his influence never stuck for more than several minutes unless he kept focusing on it – and as of yet he hadn’t managed to keep at it much longer than half an hour before his nose would start bleeding. And – well. He’d tried to be subtle, but they’d figured him out for what he was – and so he’d laid low for the last few months, trying to use his talents as little as possible.

Thus far, there’d been no repercussions.

He sat down again. He stood up again.

What he had seen today hadn’t even been _related_ to him. No one would link him to the man who had sat two desks down from him and been revealed to possess _supernatural abilities,_ as they had called it. No one would have interpreted his schooled facial expression as anything out of the ordinary when the man had been publicly challenged. No one would have thought anything of the flash of horror that crossed his face when they knocked the man to the ground, or the way the man had locked half-crazed eyes with his as they dragged him away. Fear itself was not incriminating. Anyone with any sense was afraid of the freaks – his reaction had been natural. Normal.

But the whole scenario had been far too close to be comfortable.

He sat down again, letting out a shuddery breath. He tried to stay still – to stay _calm_.

A careful hand laid on his shoulder and he flinched – only to see Charity standing over him, her expression concerned. He put his hand over hers, saying nothing, and she frowned.

“What happened?” she asked.

“A man, at work,” he said. “Like me. They found him out.”

Charity closed her eyes.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” he reassured, wishing he could use his talents to convince himself of his own words.

For a moment, they were both silent. Barnum looked down at the desk. Neither of them moved until Charity squeezed his shoulder, and he glanced up at her.

“Come on,” she said, her tone soft and understanding as she pulled him out of the chair. Her hand still in his, he followed her out of the room, past where their young daughters were sound asleep and to the stairs that led to the roof. The moon was out, painting the grey cement with a silver sheen as Charity led them through the billowing sheets. She turned to him, placing her hands on his hips and slowly, carefully, starting to dance.

“Charity…” he started, his fear still churning in his gut.

“Shh,” was all she said, pulling him into her as she led them in a steady waltz. “You need to get out of your head.”

His movements were rigid at first, the tension in his limbs as stubborn as the dread that had rooted itself in his stomach. But he knew of nothing that could stand against the pure force that was Charity Barnum for very long, and after only minutes he felt his shoulders loosen as he melted into her touch. They danced across the roof, retracing the footsteps of previous nights, where fears had pulled them into each other’s embrace as a way to leave everything else behind. The sheets fluttered around them, the breeze blowing them in time as if reality was dancing with them. Their steps became quicker, acquiring a fluidity and power as though they could change everything in this moment – as though they could take the sanctuary they found in each other’s arms and offer it to the world around them.

As if through their movements, they could sew the threads of their dreams into something tangible, a veil that would hide them from the darkest thoughts that plagued them.

Eventually they began to slow, each step losing momentum until they were doing no more than a slow dance, leaning into each other’s arms. Barnum rested his head against his wife’s, looking up at the tapestry of stars stretched above them, unable to keep the wondrous smile from his face. Charity hummed softly, and he held her a little tighter in response.

“Are you alright?” she asked into his shoulder. He let out a humoured breath.

“I will be,” he said. He kissed her temple. “Thank you.”

She shifted slightly, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. “It’s going to be fine. They’re not going to find you.”

He closed his eyes as they swayed together, attempting to ignore the fear as it tried to regain lost territory. But their dance had slowed and reality began to creep back under his skin. It was at times like this he hated his intense imagination, as his mind supplied him with multiple visions of what would happen to them all if she was wrong.

“Phin…” Charity slowed to a stop, pulling away just enough to look at his face. “We’re going to be fine.”

He shook his head. “But what if we’re not? I just – I keep thinking about what would happen to you and the girls – _especially_ the girls. What if they’re taken away because they might be like me? And then you’d end up going back to your parents –”

“A fate worse than death,” she chuckled, but Barnum couldn’t find it in himself to laugh with her.

“All I want is to know for sure that you’re all safe. That I can protect you. I want to make things _better_ than they are now –”

“But you don’t need to, Phin – we’re safe, we’re happy – we don’t need better.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak she cut him off.

“I don’t _want_ better. I chose _you_ – for better or worse, whatever the risks. That was _my_ choice. And I don’t regret it for a second.”

He didn’t respond, unable to look at her face – because it was in this very sentiment the question that haunted him most could be found; a question that would creep into his mind in the times when sleep escaped him, until the dreams that kept him awake shifted into nightmares. The conversation they’d had several years ago came to the forefront of his mind, as it had done on regular occasion. The words that had been intended as reassurance had twisted with time into something entirely different:

 _“I think I might have felt it if you had.”_ Charity had said, sounding so sure of something she could never know for certain. How could she ever know if he had influenced her? He never had intentionally but –

Unintentionally?

“What if it wasn’t?” His voice is quiet.

She frowned at him. “What?”

“What if it wasn’t your choice? What if I – made you fall in love with me?”

She stared at him, bewildered. “But you’ve never used your abilities on me.”

“Never deliberately. But when we first met – I didn’t know what I could do, and I couldn’t control it. I didn’t know I _needed_ to. I could have used them on you and neither of us would ever have realised it.” The very idea that he had done this appalled him, and he couldn’t meet her eyes. “What if the only reason you chose this – chose me – is because I made you want to?”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she tilted his chin up so he was looking at her, and she smiled at him.  

“I chose you because you made me _laugh_. You brought _colour_ into my life – showed me _magic_.”

“But how can you _know_ it wasn’t just –”

She smiled at him. “Are you _trying_ to convince me that I don’t really love you?”

“No – _no,_ of course not, I just –” He pulled her back into him and held her tight. “I just can’t bear the thought that I made you be a part of something that you never wanted.”

He felt her sigh into him.

“Maybe you did use them when we were younger. Or maybe you didn’t. We’re never going to know for sure. But you’re not using them at the moment, are you?”

He buried his face into her hair. “Of course not.”

“And you told me the effects don’t last – so if it all was just you, then it would have faded by now. But trust me, Phin, my love for you _never_ faded. Not even for a second.”

For once, Barnum had nothing to say, feeling an overwhelming surge of adoration for the incredible women in his arms, and wondering how on earth he was lucky enough to have her in his life.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else,” she told him. “Everything I ever wanted is right here.”

He hugged her a little tighter. “I love you _so much_.”

He felt her smile into his shoulder. They stayed like that for a moment, until Charity began to pull away. Barnum reluctantly let her go.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bank waiting room was full but oppressively silent. Barnum checked the time, trying not to fidget as he sat. He’d only been there for 20 minutes, but already he felt intensely restless, barely able to contain the overwhelming sense of anticipation that consumed him. He subconsciously thumbed the pages of the newspaper lying forgotten on his lap as he watched the door to the consultant’s room. The ideas that had seeded the previous night under the whirling glow of candlelight were now blossoming in his mind, vivid limitless spectrums of colour and joy. He could hardly suppress his excitement at the concepts he was _certain_ would soon become reality. The waiting felt close to torture. The future where his plans became actuality felt intensely close and imminent, and yet each second in this moment seemed to stretch out with no end in sight. His dreams, no more than fabrications in his mind, wouldn’t become real until his name was called. Until he walked through that door. Until he left this bank with a successfully acquired loan. 

And he _would_ be successful; there was no doubt about that – not with his abilities. He _had_ been unsuccessful in his attempts to get a loan before. Several years ago, when he had been less practiced at the subtleties of using his powers effectively, he’d tried to persuade the bank to give him a substantial loan with nothing to offer as collateral. This had worked for about five minutes; the banker he had consulted with hadn’t been able to refuse him, but then the man had left to confirm it as per due process – and, of course, Barnum had not been able to follow. Without being able to exert his influence face to face, the loan had _not_ been approved.

But he’d learnt since then. He knew there was an art to getting suggestions and persuasions to stick, and it usually involved something external to corroborate what he was saying. He glanced down at the thin strip of paper lying on top of his newspaper. _Proof_ , as such, of valid collateral. Or, as he liked to consider it, his ticket to betterment – the key to unleashing the colourful visions of his mind that would transform even the greyest streets of New York City.

A grumbling noise to his right caught his ear. He glanced down the row of seats, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary – until he laid eyes on the pair of feet that barely reached the edge of the bench. He frowned. Were children allowed in the bank? He’d thought not, but clearly he’d been wrong, since only a child could have legs that short. Although…

He pulled out the newspaper lying on his lap, careful not to misplace the precious collateral, and opened the first spread. He was pretty sure he’d seen something when he had tried in vain to read the paper in the first 5 minutes of waiting. His previous distractibility was now replaced by a burning focus as he searched for what had caught his –

There.

 _FREAK NUMBERS RISING,_ screamed the headline on the third page, followed by: _Increasing frequency of preternatural incidents suggests higher numbers of deviants than ever before._

The article itself rambled on with the usual fear-mongering, but the idea of an _increase_ in the number of people like him was fascinating. Whilst Barnum was thankful that his powers were secret from all except Charity, he would catch himself wishing that there was someone _else_ who knew. Someone else who was like him – who could _understand_. He’d never had the chance to talk to another person with abilities; as far as he could tell, he didn’t even _know_ another – although it was quite possible that this was untrue. However, due to the obvious danger, no one was able to be open about it. As the number of incidents had increased, so had the fear and hatred. They had even begun to classify others like him into two groups: those whose differences were _abnormal_ , but harmless – like those with cat-like eyes who could climb walls – and those whose differences made them a _threat_. He’d heard a story of a boy who had set a carriage on fire just by looking at it. Days later, the boy had been detained in the name of public safety. Barnum suspected he was no longer alive.

But there was a third group – those like him, whose powers were invisible to most and yet would rightly terrify anyone who discovered the truth. He often thought about this – how he could persuade almost _anyone_ to do anything he wanted. In the hands of an immoral man, the results could be disastrous for many. And whilst he wasn’t exactly the height of morality, he supposed the world should feel grateful that what he wanted most was to bring _magic_ to the world, and not chaos.

He was still very much alone, however. Sometimes he just _wished_ that he could talk about his talents with someone who _also_ had talents, and feel a little more normal for once.

He glanced again at the pair of feet.

Could this person be a freak too?

With a sudden slam the door to the office was flung open. Heads swivelled to watch the haggard women who trudged out, her face a mask of fury. Most quickly turned away again, back to newspapers and stoic silence, but Barnum was never one to miss a spectacle unfolding before him.

“Come on, Charles, we’re _leaving_ ,” she snapped at the pair of feet, before dragging their owner off the chair and down the aisle. She was grumbling something unsavoury about the bank, but Barnum didn’t hear – he was too busy staring at the shortest figure of a grown man he had ever seen, hidden under a hooded cloak. But that was the _least_ of it, Barnum realised, as the man glanced up and he caught sight of his _skin –_ leathery, vibrant red, and covered in scale-like notches that ran up the contours of his face. _Definitely_ a freak, there was no doubt about it, although certainly one with a lot of guts to consider showing himself with such an obvious abnormality. Barnum found himself utterly captivated, letting his thoughts spiral unhindered with wonder until –  

“What are you looking at, _floptoodle_?” the man sneered with a surprising amount of venom for his stature. His face was a picture of distaste.

Before Barnum could even reply, the pair had swept past him, not once glancing back. He couldn’t help but watch as they left, wondering where they were _going_ , who they _were_ , if they knew others who were different, what they would do if they knew _he_ was different, what they –

“Mister Barnum,” came a call from the consultation room. Barnum torqued his thoughts back to the task at hand, leaving the newspaper on his chair as he stood, the collateral in his hand. A rush of anticipation flooded his veins, and the seconds felt like they were _moving_ again as he walked forwards.

His imminent success awaited. It was _inevitable._

Smiling to himself, he stepped through the open door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment was dim and quiet when he arrived home that night. He sighed heavily as he hung up his hat, trying to shake the weight of disappointment and frustration that had settled in his chest. He had no luck.

They’d sold three tickets. _Three_ – and those had been Charity and the girls. Not that he didn’t appreciate his family’s unfailing support, but –

The fact still stung.

He hadn’t used his abilities. He hadn’t on _principle_ , because he wanted it to be _real_. He wanted people to come to the museum out of their own choice, not because he’d twisted their will. But it wasn’t just that – he’d been so _certain_ that people would _want_ to come. The way that people had shoved past them with no interest, had thrown down his fliers in disgust…

He entered the main room, only to find Charity asleep on the sofa. His expression softened – she’d probably been waiting up for him, and failed to stay awake. Her arm trailed off into the air, a scrap of paper resting in her lax hand. He carefully removed it, before glancing at it and –

He closed his eyes.

 _Family Expenses_ , it read.

The numbers didn’t look good.

He tried to dispel the sickening dread that rooted in his stomach. The answer was clear – he _would_ use his abilities tomorrow. It would still be real once they _got there_ , after all – once they saw the museum they would fall in love with it, he was sure. He was _certain_. Once they caught a _glimpse_ of the magic that escaped them, that he saw _every day_ , it wouldn’t _matter_ that they hadn’t paid for tickets out of their own choice. Because they wouldn’t regret it. They’d want to come _back._

But he knew what Charity would have said to that argument, had she been awake – because part of him was saying the very same thing. _The ends justify the means_ was a reasoning that paved the way for much less favourable things. But that part seemed insignificant now – a minor detail, considering neither the ends or the means were all that sinister. And it wasn’t like he had a _choice_ if he was going to be able to pay the –

“Daaaaaddy.”

His spiralling thoughts shuddered to a halt as he turned, momentarily bewildered.

“ _Daaaaaaddy_.”

Laying the list of expenses on top of the newspaper on the table, he carefully pulled the blanket at the foot of the sofa over his wife. Then he crept towards his daughters’ room.

Both Caroline and Helen were awake, looking up at him from under the blankets of their shared bed. He couldn’t help but smile at them.

“Did you sell any more tickets today?” Caroline asked. Her eyes were full of both hope and a genuine, childlike concern.

“A few, yeah,” he told her – not using his powers; just like Charity, he would _never_ use them on the girls – managing to keep the aching disappointment from his voice. He picked up the book that lay between the two girls. “Most everyone was rushing home, it’s Friday, but –”

He glanced at the book cover – _Tom Thumb,_ it read – pausing as he wished that just by saying the words he could make it true. But that had never been his skillset.

“– we sold a few.” He put the book down, unable to make his smile reach his eyes.

“I think you have too many dead things in your museum, Daddy,” said Helen.

“Do you?” he replied, a little amused. Helen had never been one for tact.

“She’s right,” said her sister. “You need something alive.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, longing for the naivety of youth – that he could believe that the situation could be resolved so easily. _Make it come alive_. He wondered if there was someone out there with the ability to make his wax figures come to life. Now _that_ would certainly be something.

He smiled at his daughters, appreciating their attempts to help. “Go to sleep, both of you.”

“Something _sensational_ ,” Caroline said. He couldn’t stop his smile from widening.

“That’s a big word.”

“It’s _your_ word,” she countered. Again, he paused, feeling a swell of pride bloom beneath his despair.

“Something that isn’t _stuffed,_ ” Helen offered.

“Like a _mermaid_.”

Helen’s eyes lit up. “Or a unicorn!”

Caroline looked at her sister incredulously. “Unicorns _aren’t real_.”

“Well mermaids aren’t real _either_ …”

Barnum settled the pair down again before bidding them a final goodnight, leaving their room with a strange feeling in his chest. It was something he recognised – the sense of ideas, of the _answer,_ stirring inside him but hidden under the surface of consciousness. He was standing on the brink of enlightenment – an epiphany within grasp but out of sight. The solution was there – in his mind, in that memory, in that _conversation_. What had he been thinking? What –

His feet found their way to his desk, and he slipped into his chair without thought, lost in his musings. It was only after a couple of minutes that he realised, at some point, he had picked up the book from the girl’s bedside cabinet again and was fiddling with the pages in his hands. A little bewildered, he put it down on the table in front of him, beside an apple he’d intended to eat the other day but had promptly forgotten about. His mind momentarily wandered as he looked at the book cover – the illustration of a boy with an abnormally short stature made him think of the man he’d seen at the bank. Again, Barnum found himself wondering who he was – if he knew _others like them_ – but schooled his thoughts back to the answers shifting in the back of his mind.

The girls had said he had too many _dead things._ When he thought about it, it made sense. The wax figures that currently stood in his museum, whilst bizarre and beautifully grotesque, were _static_. Unmoving and cold – the opposite of _everything_ he was. He needed something living and breathing and _wild_. Untameable, like the ideas that sparked behind his eyes every minute, every hour, without fail.

His eyes flickered to the book cover again – and then to the apple beside it. The memory his nine-year-old self standing with an apple in hand, bewildered by success, immediately came to mind. Then the man in the bank again – with his sharp tongue and the bravery to use it.

 _Make it come alive_.

He stood.

Entering the living room, his veins surging with anticipation – _so close, so close_ – he walked around the sofa, straining to reign in his urgency so not to wake Charity. Quietly, his chest almost bursting with self-contained energy, he carefully moved the list of expenses he had set down earlier to the side, taking the newspaper out from underneath. The front page bore a story about two freaks who had evaded detainment; the second page another article; and the fourth another. Each described the supernatural abilities the individuals possessed in great detail, revelling in the fear each word spread to the public. But as Barnum read, he didn’t see _danger_ or something fearsome – he saw the potential for something beautiful. Something magical. Something _alive._

He managed to keep the joyous laugh from escaping his lips, but couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face.  

 _He knew what to do_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charity finds him the next morning in the early hours, pencil in hand, scrawled notes and sketches scattered around him. This isn’t the first time she’s found him like this, slumped over his desk with chronic insomnia having finally taken its toll, but it had been many months since she’d seen him do _this_ – pull raw ideas from his mind and attempt to capture them on paper – make impossible things _tangible_ in the way only he can. She hopes this is a good sign. She’s seen Phin enraptured with ideas before, but this is truly something else as she looks and finds auditorium designs, performance rings, passages of manic scribbles that she has no hope of deciphering. If his handwriting and the amount of _stuff_ he’s created in one night is anything to go by, this idea hasn’t just enraptured him – it’s _consumed_ him.

She tells herself this is a good sign; for his own sake more than hers. She already knows she would risk everything for him – that she only needs him, and the girls, in order to be happy.

She doesn’t wake him. Instead, she drapes the blanket she’d found herself under when she’d awoken over his back, and leaves him to his dreaming.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heads-up for y'all - this is going to be _long_. And it's going to take me a _while_ to write it. But stick with me, because I've got it all planned out and I think if I can actually do this? It's going to be really something. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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